The capital city of Vell'Ashera awoke to mourning bells that tolled like war drums. Black banners fluttered from the spires of House Varys, the streets below choked with solemn processions and fearful whispers. Lord Marius Varys, a stalwart of the Crimson Parliament, was dead—assassinated in his prime, and no culprit in chains.
The banquet had ended in chaos, but the aftermath was far more orderly—too orderly. Like vultures circling fresh carrion, the nobility convened behind closed doors, their smiles sharpened with opportunity.
Lysandra, veiled in mourning black, now stood as the de facto Matriarch of House Varys. Her youth, once considered an asset in courtly affairs, had become a liability overnight. Allies turned wary. Enemies saw weakness. Rumors ran rampant: that she had failed her father, that she had hastened his death, or worse—that she had plotted it.
And through it all, Elian remained at her side.
Officially, he was her advisor—appointed by Lord Marius himself just weeks prior. Unofficially, he was something far more dangerous. In whispers he was called her consort, her shadow, her flame. His presence in the halls of power was met with both reverence and unease.
For Elian wielded not just courtly influence, but something deeper, subtler—an aura of command that defied logic. The nobles couldn't name it. They only knew that when he spoke, ears listened. When he walked past, even highborn lords straightened their posture as if under scrutiny.
The Lust System thrummed beneath Elian's skin, fed not just by Lysandra's grief-stricken submission, but by the attention of the court itself. Power, after all, was its own aphrodisiac—and the scent of it now clung to him like a second skin.
The Crimson Parliament gathered three days after the funeral, convening in the Flamecourt—a grand coliseum of obsidian and gold where the fates of empires were written in ink and blood.
Elian entered beside Lysandra, her face unreadable, her frame draped in mourning silk. Gasps rippled through the assembly. A mere month ago, he would not have been permitted to stand in this sanctum, let alone walk beside one of its most powerful heirs.
The high dais loomed ahead, where the First Flame, Chancellor Ravion, presided. A gaunt man with eyes like frosted glass, Ravion had survived six attempted poisonings, three uprisings, and a duel with a Shadowblade. He had outlasted Marius Varys—and that alone made him dangerous.
"Lady Lysandra," Ravion intoned, voice dry as parchment. "You stand as the only surviving blood of House Varys. Will you claim your father's seat?"
Murmurs rose, a sea of rustling silks and shifting alliances.
Elian leaned in, voice low against her ear. "They want to see you flinch. Don't give them the satisfaction."
Lysandra stepped forward. "I claim his seat. I claim his legacy. And I vow this: the one who slew Lord Varys will know vengeance."
There it was—a flare of fire behind her grief. The court felt it. More importantly, Elian felt it. A surge of sex points pulsed into him as the Lust System responded not to intimacy, but to power gained through influence.
Ravion nodded, expression unreadable. "Then let the record show House Varys remains unbroken."
But as she ascended the steps to take her father's seat, Elian's mind was already racing. Ravion hadn't asked her to name a regent. A courtesy, perhaps. Or a trap.
He would find out soon enough.
Later that night, as storm clouds gathered over the palace, Elian met with his growing network in the hidden chambers beneath the Spire of Lanterns. Here, among flickering braziers and shadows thick with incense, his allies knelt: Neressa, deadly in crimson velvet; Thalor, the rogue mage with an appetite for forbidden spells; and the newest addition—Vallien Drythorn, a disgraced noble with a talent for poison and politics.
"Lysandra holds her seat," Elian said, pacing before them. "But she won't hold it long unless we strike first."
"Against whom?" Neressa asked. "Half the Parliament suspects her. A third wants her dead."
"And one in particular stands poised to act," Elian murmured, producing a sealed scroll. He handed it to Thalor, who broke the wax with a flick of arcane fire.
Vallien frowned. "Duke Relmar?"
Elian nodded. "He was seen speaking with Chancellor Ravion the night before the banquet. And his guards have been quietly doubled since Marius's death."
Neressa hissed, "You think Ravion was involved?"
"I think he knows more than he's letting on," Elian replied. "But he's careful. Relmar, on the other hand, is greedy. And greed makes fools."
"So what's the plan?" Thalor asked.
"We bait him. Feed him a false trail—make him believe Lysandra is seeking an alliance with House Sorevin, his ancient rival. That'll flush him out."
"And when he moves?" Vallien grinned. "We cut off the head."
Elian smiled.
"No," he said. "We offer him a better deal."
The next three days were a storm of whispers, forged letters, and choreographed performances. Elian guided Lysandra through the web like a master puppeteer, instructing her on who to praise, who to slight, and when to feign ignorance.
Relmar bit faster than expected.
By the end of the week, he had publicly denounced House Sorevin, petitioned the court for sanctions against Lysandra, and called for a private tribunal to investigate Marius Varys's death.
It was exactly what Elian needed.
The tribunal convened in a side hall of the Flamecourt—smaller, intimate, and perfect for political theater. Elian stood at Lysandra's side, his aura cloaked in the Veil of Temptation. Even seasoned lords found their minds clouded when they looked at him too long.
Relmar stood to speak, passion lacing his words. "We must know the truth! House Varys must not be above suspicion simply because a daughter weeps prettily in black!"
Gasps rang out. Lysandra paled, not from fear—but from the carefully rehearsed shock Elian had taught her to mimic.
"Lord Relmar," she said softly, "do you accuse me of murdering my father?"
Relmar hesitated, caught. "I… I question your suitability to hold such power without oversight."
Elian stepped forward. "Then allow the court to see oversight."
He turned, lifting a scroll high. "This is a record of private meetings between Relmar and Chancellor Ravion, cross-referenced with the movements of the palace guards on the night of the banquet."
A ripple of tension shot through the room.
"This is outrageous!" Relmar snarled. "Fabricated!"
"Let the mages verify the ink," Elian said smoothly.
They did. And it wasn't.
Within moments, Relmar's protestations collapsed beneath the weight of his own schemes. The tribunal disbanded, and Lysandra's innocence was declared.
Ravion said nothing.
But when Elian met his gaze across the room, he saw something new.
Recognition.
And perhaps, fear.
That night, in the sanctum of House Varys, Lysandra pulled Elian into her chambers, her breath ragged, her body trembling—not from desire, but from the high of survival.
"You saved me again," she whispered, fingers tangled in his tunic.
"I told you I would."
They fell into each other, but this time, the union was different. Not grief. Not manipulation.
It was the raw, addicting taste of shared victory.
And the Lust System drank it in like wine.
New abilities whispered into Elian's mind:
Thronebinder — Political influence now translated directly into power within the Lust System. The more nobles who acknowledged him as an equal or superior, the stronger his aura of authority became.
Crimson Pact — A blood-bond spell hidden within an orgasm, allowing Elian to seed loyalty deeper than any oath. Lysandra would never betray him, not just emotionally—but magically.
As dawn broke over Vell'Ashera, the city still wept for Lord Varys.
But the game had shifted.
Relmar was ruined.
The Parliament was watching.
And Elian?
He was rising—not just as the Flamebearer, not merely as Lysandra's secret flame…
…but as a power broker in the heart of the empire.
The throne had no king.
And the shadows were hungry.